Like a Charm
by writerofberk
Summary: Every year at Hogwarts was always the same: Poppy did something stupid or ridiculous or life-threatening, and-here was the part Branch really couldn't explain, not even to himself-he always, always did the stupid, ridiculous, life-threatening things with her. [Hogwarts AU? Hogwarts AU. One-shot series.]
1. Divination

"Tell me again," Branch murmured, voice as quiet as he could make it, and hardly moving his lips—Professor Cybil had ears like a bat, even in the crowded confines of her overheated classroom, "how I got dragged into this."

Chenille smoothed out her hair for the sixth time that morning— _"The humidity in Professor Cybil's classroom! My hair will never be the same, Branch!"_ —put her elbow up on the desk, and dropped her chin into her palm before she answered. "Poppy."

Yeah. Right. Of course. _Poppy._ Three years at this place, and so far, they'd all been the same: Poppy wanted to do something stupid, or ridiculous, or life-threatening—like try out for Quidditch, never mind the enormous black balls whizzing around trying to _knock people off their brooms_ , _honestly, Poppy, please_ —or go into the Forbidden Forest to find a unicorn, because who cared about the werewolves and Acromantulas and centaurs who'd have them for breakfast before they could shout _Expelliarmus_ —or sign up for a Divination class even though she didn't even want to go into fortune-telling, and she'd never shown the slightest interest in it before that fourth-year flower-child, Creek or whatever his name was, mentioned how much he liked it—

 _Well._ The fact remained. Poppy did stupid things. Dangerous things.

And—for some reason, for some _ridiculous_ reason Branch could never really put into words, not even in his own head—he always did the stupid, dangerous thing with her. Okay, not the trying-out-for-Quidditch part—if Poppy wanted to break her stupid neck on a flimsy little broomstick hundreds of feet in the air, she was completely on her own—never mind how Branch had sat in the stands the entire time, biting his nails down to the quick and chewing his bottom lip until it bled—he was not going anywhere _near_ that accident-waiting-to-happen that Poppy liked to call her Firebolt, thank you very much.

Branch huffed out a resigned sigh. "Why," he said, instead of putting his head down on his desk, the way he really wanted to—it'd be just his luck if Professor Cybil decided to pull her head out of the clouds and look his way right as he gave in to temptation, "why do I keep _listening_ to her?"

Chenille shrugged, gazing through half-lidded eyes, lashes thick and heavy with her favorite Muggle mascara, at their crystal ball—which had remained stubbornly blank all lesson. "'Cause it's Poppy." She shifted a little in her seat, and smoothed her hair again. "And you're a sucker."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Chenille stifled a yawn. "Want to start making stuff up?"

Branch slumped back in relief. "Thought you'd never ask."

* * *

 **A/N:** **So it's autumn, or as I like to call it, that time of year where I reread Harry Potter and have at least three good ugly cries because Nostalgia, and I realized I've never actually written a legitimate Hogwarts AU, ever. I Had to Rectify This. But I just got finished with _Prisoner of Azkaban_ , and the mental image of Branch in a Divination class entered my head, and I laughed so hard, I knew I had to write it. Side note on my Sorting choices: Poppy and Smidge are both in Gryffindor, because of course, but Biggie, Cooper, Satin, Guy Diamond, DJ Suki, Bridget, and Gristle are in Hufflepuff, while Branch and Chenille are in Ravenclaw. Creek's likely in Slytherin, as he fits the criteria there best, but I'm not one hundred percent committed to that choice. He might be in Ravenclaw in later chapters. **

**comments help me grow!**


	2. Quidditch

"You know," Branch said, in his most reasonable and logical voice, which was very reasonable and logical, by the way, and absolutely did not crack in the middle, so Guy Diamond could stuff it, "there are seven hundred ways to commit a Quidditch foul." He pulled the battered, school-library copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ out of his bag, where he'd stuffed it just before rushing down to breakfast, because this was his _absolute last chance_ , and he _could not muck it up._

"Mm." Poppy took a huge, ravenous bite out of the thickly-buttered biscuit in her hand, and sprayed crumbs everywhere when she spoke. "I know that."

Right, yeah, okay, fine, so she knew that—her mother had captained the Holyhead Harpies for nearly six years, of course she knew that, how could he have been so _stupid_ —no, didn't matter, it didn't matter, he could still—he could still do this. Last chance. He wasn't giving up that easy. He sat up a little straighter in his seat. "In the World Cup of 1473, all seven hundred were committed."

"Huh." Poppy crammed the last of the biscuit in her mouth. "Neat-o." More crumbs spewed out.

"It was not 'neat-o'!" Branch snapped, and snatched the plate of biscuits away as she reached for another one—at least now she'd have to _look_ at him. "People almost died in that match, Poppy, did you know that?!"

"Branch." Smidge spoke up around the forkful of eggs she'd just stuffed in her mouth. "Beat it."

"You really _should_ go back to your table," Poppy added earnestly—in lieu of biscuits, she'd started in on her bacon. "Don't think any of the professors are real big on stuff like this. Can you believe that?"

"You tried to sit with the Hufflepuffs for a solid week," Smidge reminded her, chomping on a sausage.

"Like, half my friends are in Hufflepuff! It's really ridiculous, all this separation between the Houses, like, who cares if you're braver than you are smart, or smarter than you are brave, or more—"

"Poppy," Branch cut her off, trying to get the conversation back on-track—last chance, and he couldn't muck it up. In a few minutes, she'd be heading down to the pitch for her first match, and he had to make her see sense before then. "Do you know the statistics for Quidditch-related injuries?"

Poppy actually _laughed_ , like she wasn't about to go out risking painful dismemberment in less than ten minutes' time. "Come _on_ , Branch, it's not like anyone's ever _died_!"

Branch lost it. A little. Maybe. "Broken bones! Broomstick sabotage! Mysterious vanishings! Bludgers to the head!" He slammed _Quidditch Through the Ages_ down on the table in front of her, scattering biscuit crumbs. "You have no idea, Poppy, _anything could happen to you_ _out there on that field today_!"

"Don't worry," Smidge finished off her sausage, and flexed her muscles threateningly, "no Bludger's getting near Poppy while I've still got a club."

"Oh, _yeah_ , one girl on _one_ broomstick with _one measly little club_?! Thanks _so much_ , I am _completely reassured_ —!"

Smidge kicked him under the table.

"Listen, Branch," Poppy pushed away her plate, "don't get me wrong, it's really sweet that you care so much—"

"C-care?!" No, no, no, that was—that was _not_ —that was _absolutely not_ —and when had the Great Hall gotten so warm—? "D-don't be ridiculous, Poppy! I'm just tr-trying to talk some _sense_ into you before you get yourselfkilled!" Oh, great, and now—now he was stuttering—and he had no reason to be stuttering, none at all, because it wasn't like he _actually cared_ or anything, no way, not in a _million years_ —

"Hey, hey, hang on," Poppy frowned at him, and pushed her bangs out of her eyes, "you—you are coming to the match. R-right?"

 _What kind of question is—?_

"B-because," she pressed on, chewing on her bottom lip and shifting a little in her seat, and looking so not-Poppy, he only knew her by the bubblegum-pink hair, "I-I mean, I know you hate Quidditch, a-and you think it's really stupid, and you think I'm stupid for playing, and I know you hate crowds and you hate noise and you're not even in Gryffindor, s-so I guess it won't matter to you if we win or not, b-but it's my f-first match, and I—I—"

"I—I don't think you're stupid," Branch blurted out, before he could stop himself. "I—I mean, don't get me wrong," he added when she raised an incredulous eyebrow at him, "this—this whole thing is—I mean, this game shouldn't even be legal, with all the injuries and accidents and stuff, b-but I mean, I-I don't think you're _stupid_. You're _not_ stupid." If he was being honest with himself, Poppy was about the farthest thing from stupid he could imagine—the smartest person he knew, and then some—but there was no need to go telling her that—her head was already big enough as it was—

"So, you—" Poppy looked at him hopefully. "— _are_ coming to the match?"

"Yeah, 'course I am, why in Merlin's name would I miss your first—?" Wait, no, hang on, that wasn't right, that was not right, that was not what he meant to say at all, and now she had a great big stupid grin on her face and oh, God, the Great Hall was warming up again, much quicker this time. "I—I mean—! S-somebody's got to be there, to—to scr-scrape you off the field when you fall off your broom, that's all!" His voice cracked. Right in the middle. He inwardly cursed Guy Diamond to hell. "I—I need to get back to my table!" He grabbed _Quidditch Through the Ages_ off the table and tried to stuff it back down in his bag except it wouldn't go in because he was an idiot who carried all his textbooks with him even when he didn't need them and even though Poppy laughed at him for it and now that he thought about it he'd only checked out the stupid book in the first place right after Poppy had made the team and why did he have to start thinking about that _now_ and the back of his neck burned and he finally got the book in his bag and got to his feet and the Ravenclaw table had never looked farther away than it did now, and he didn't look back—didn't want to look back, that was it—on his way back to his seat.

 _Care_. Right. Yeah. _Ridiculous._

* * *

 **A/N: liSTEN...LISTEN...Poppy would absolutely 1000000% play Quidditch and Branch would 10000000% Not Support This Decision At All. He's going to attend her every match, of course, but he Is Not Going to Support Her Reckless Tomfoolery. ((also this has absolutely nothing to do with anything but Poppy's either a Chaser or the Keeper. Probably a Chaser. She's crazy talented. it's not important, but it's important.))**

 **They're in their second or third year here, so just to be clear, Branch's feelings for Poppy are purely platonic at this point. Nothing wrong with having crushes or anything at a younger age, but anything romantic between them in this fic won't occur until at least fourth or fifth year, just 'cause. You know. Let kids be kids.**


	3. Metamorphmagus

Poppy's hair was _pink._

 _No._ _No way._ Branch looked again. Just to make sure he wasn't wrong.

No. Nope. No such luck. She was still pink. _Completely_ pink, too—not a little highlight here or a few strands there—all over her head—a bright, blazing, bubblegum pink, a magnificent clash against her scarlet school robes, the vivid tresses bouncing around her grinning, freckled face—she was practically _glowing_ against the plain brown-and-white of the overcrowded Charms classroom, drawing every eye effortlessly as she all but glided down the row of desks, straight to the back, with her chin up and her shoulders back and her—her _smile_ , God, _her fucking smile_ , and _I can change everything else, why can't I change my smile, what's even the point of being a Metamorphagus if I can't get rid of these stupid teeth,_ and why the _fuck_ would she want to change—anything, why would she want to change anything—those teeth, those adorable teeth, and the lift in her round, flushed cheeks, and the glistening smear of scented strawberry gloss on her lips and the way if her grin got big enough, her eyes started to crinkle up at the corners until they were tiny half-moons above her button nose, and oh, God, her _dimples_ , just kill him now—

She came to the end of the row and she plopped down in the seat right next to his and _her elbow_ was touching _his elbow_ and that should not have felt half so intimate as it did, and he swallowed, and when he did, he could feel his heart lodged right there in the back of his throat like it just _grew there_ and—

"Hey, Branch!" Her goofy smile widened, and she twirled a bubblegum strand of hair around her finger, and the color-changing polish Satin and Chenille talked her into trying out on her nails caught the light and glimmered. "Notice anything?"

Okay, no. _That was not fucking fair._ That was just—that was just not fucking fair, it wasn't fucking fair that she could do that to him without _knowing_ she was doing it to him and it wasn't fucking fair andhis breath caught in his throat and how the _fuck_ was he even supposed to say _anything—_?

"Branch?"

"N-no!" Stupid, stupid, that was—that was stupid, he just—he just blurted it out, and oh, God, he stuttered, didn't he—actually stuttered, God, could this get any worse—

"Aww, come _on_!" Poppy gave her hair an exaggerated shake—the pink fell in waves, in ripples, shining on her shoulders, running down her back like a rippling waterfall. _"Nothing?"_

If she'd told him to, he thought he might really have handed his wand over to her, no hesitation, right that fucking minute. He jolted a little in his seat at the thought, fingers clenched tight around the thin wooden strip, the handle slightly damp from the sweat on his palms. His nervous, bouncing knee brushed hers under the desk, and she didn't move away and he thought he might actually fucking explode if she got any closer what if she did what if she did what if she _did_ get closer closer closer closer so close so close so close enough for him to kiss her—

"Your Metamorphasing," he said, sharply, because _no,_ Professor Guffin was gonna be there any minute, and _he could not let himself think about kissing Poppy in the middle of the goddamn Charms classroom_ , "isn't for tricks, Poppy. It's not something to play with. Would it _kill_ you to take it more _seriously_?"

"Hey!" Poppy sat up a little straighter in her seat, eyes flashing. "I _do_ take it seriously!"

Branch raised his eyebrows.

"I take it the _seriously-est_!"

Oh, fuck. She was fucking _adorable_. He bit down, hard, on his bottom lip, to make sure he wouldn't smile. "I'll keep that in mind, Ms. Pig-Snout-in-Herbology-last-week."

"O-okay," Poppy threw up a defensive hand, "there's such a thing as _too serious_ , I'll have you know."

"Mm." He was not going to smile. He was not going to smile. That would just be encouraging her shit. He pulled open his Charms textbook—at least this way he wouldn't have tolook at her—oh, fuck it—at least this way, he wouldn't have to remind himself to _stop looking_ at her. Maybe he could blame her hair—

"H-hey, Branch?"

There was a decidedly not-Poppy note of uncertainty in her voice, a hitch, a stammer, a waver, and he lifted his head to look at her.

"Do you—?" She bit her lip, and twirled her hair around her finger again. "Do you think—?" A blush bloomed across her cheeks until her face was almost as pink as her hair, until every freckle stood out stark against the flush. What he wouldn't give to kiss them, all of them, press his lips to every tiny little spot until he could make constellations out of them, and maybe if he did, she'd see the stars on her skin and know she was _beautiful_ —

"Do you think Creek will like it?"

"What?"

"Creek," she repeated at once, but she didn't seem to want to look at him anymore. "Do you—do you think—?"

 _Do you think Creek will like it?_

The words burned their way down inside Branch like an open flame, searing and scorching and just under his skin, his stomach writhing and twisting like a nest of coiling, hissing snakes. _Creek._ Right. Yeah. Creek. The guy Poppy actually _wanted_ to kiss her.

 _How could I fucking forget._

"I don't know, Poppy," he didn't say it so much as he snarled it, like he was some kind of animal they'd study in their next Care of Magical Creatures lesson, "I'll talk to him about it right after we get finished braiding each other's hair and making friendship bracelets."

"Really?" She stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Don't you know anything about sarcasm?!"

He ripped open the Charms textbook again, and buried himself resolutely in the ink and parchment, because words made so, so much more sense than the fire burning its slow, agonizing way through his bones.

Poppy huffed. "You don't have to like my hair," she grumbled, half under her breath, "to be _supportive_."

And, oh, God, that was the _problem_ , wasn't it, that was the fucking problem—he liked her hair, he liked her smile, he liked her everything, and he liked it all way, _way_ more than he ever should have.

* * *

 **A/N: So this one plays with the timeline a bit - in _Quidditch_ , which I specifically stated was second or third year, at most, Branch mentions Poppy's pink hair in passing, kind of as a matter of course, which suggests she's had it before, but this one, set in fifth year, describes it like Branch has never seen Poppy with pink hair before. Poppy's pink hair is just? going to jump around i guess sgfrgfb don't put any stock in the timeline of these things honestly please don't. **

**Anyway, I imagine fifth-year Poppy as still kind of figuring herself out a bit, which I had fun writing! Insecure Poppy isn't a concept explored enough for my taste - understandable, of course, because she's so unshakably confident in canon. Anyway! I hope you guys like this next installment. Honestly where is this series going. What is even my life.**


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